


in bodies that don't keep, dumbstruck with the sweetness of being

by singagainsoon



Series: "The Things That Stay" 'verse [8]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Pre-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Romance, Science Boyfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-09 05:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15260091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singagainsoon/pseuds/singagainsoon
Summary: A collection of post-PR1 ficlets centering on Hermann and Newton's relationship, on growing and adjusting and making room for another person in both their heads and hearts.





	1. all that i've got and all that i need i tie in a knot that i lay at your feet

Hermann smiles over the rim of his PPDC coffee mug, lips stretching just above the white ceramic. His coffee (black, bitter, steaming) would fog up his glasses if they were not hanging limp around his neck. His body is still rigid with the sweet unfamiliarity of having someone else in his bed every night; but he does not mind. Newton sits across the table from him, doodling idly on the corner of the notepad that Hermann had attempted (and failed) to commandeer exclusively for shopping-list-use. 

He is peacefully oblivious to Hermann’s adoration, his face soft and slack and sweet and desperately in need of a shave, ringed in a halo of pale morning sun filtering through the blinds. Even his hair, choppy and sticking up every which-way even after Hermann had tried his utmost to fix it, is charming. Here in the tidy little dining space of Hermann’s quarters, the post-war world is quiet. This is the way Hermann loves him best, squinting at what he’s created through off-kilter glasses, still heavy with the sleep that his coffee has not managed to wipe away, slumped in the well-worn shape of a t-shirt Newton has probably owned since college.

He looks up finally, his entire face quirking upwards with the force of his smile, and Hermann is certain beyond plausible certainty that he is quite in love.


	2. we could rest and remain here, easily

When they break for air, Hermann’s chest is heaving. Adrenaline courses through him, makes him dizzy - or perhaps that is a byproduct of kissing and being kissed by Newton at last, the excitement of both their Drift and of saving the world still swirling in his head - in both their heads, as if they have become one single entity in the space of the last few hours. It is possible that they have.

Newton looks at him as if he is the most wonderful thing in the world, first at his pink cheeks then unabashedly down the expanse of his chest that peeks from his hastily unbuttoned shirt; and it sends a hot burst of pleasure shooting from low in his belly. Tangled messily in Newton's limbs and sheets, he is suddenly, painfully aware of his erection pressing against the front of his loose-fitting trousers. It has been growing steadily since Newton had first touched the crook of his elbow, fingers light and soft but so  _ certain  _ that he wanted nothing other than Hermann, himself, even before they’d begun tearing each other’s clothing off. He feels his face flush, burning and red beneath his skin. Newton senses his concern and reaches out to touch the side of his face, gingerly, carefully as though Hermann is something precious and fragile.

Hermann’s dick aches against his thigh.

“What is it, Herm?”

He has the sneaking suspicion that Newton knows exactly what it is that ails him. Hermann swallows every ounce of pride and dignity he has ever possessed, along with the nauseating anticipation of some off-color joke and says, “I... have an erection.”

Newton is silent for a brief, terrifying moment. Hermann’s heart stops, twists like a wet cloth being wrung out. Newton’s beloved face stretches into a wide grin, eyes shining. “That's supposed to happen.”

“I  _ know _ that,” Hermann scoffs, but Newton pulls his sore lips in for another kiss before he has any more room to grouch.


	3. we will get there when we get there

“Would it kill you to be a little less insufferable for  _ once _ in your miserable life?” Hermann says, leaning his cane against his desk and plopping unceremoniously into his chair, his sweater-clad back to Newton.

“Fuck _off_ , Hermann,” Newton seethes. There is a thump, the faint sound of metal ringing against metal when he slams his hand against one of the trays of dissection tools. "Just shut the fuck up!" Something metallic clatters to the floor behind Hermann. He does not need to look to confirm that Newton has deigned to throw a scalpel, missing by a wide margin.

“It appears your aim, much like your research, needs work.”

Hermann makes a show of shuffling some papers. What he really wants, face red from the exertion, from the shouting, is to spin back around and pull Dr. Geiszler down to his face by his ridiculous skinny tie to kiss him full on the mouth. He will not, of course. Hermann would not dare to do anything other than sit and steam quietly for a few hours, pretending to be hard at work on his equations while he considers much too long the notion of taking a risk. If Newton’s clothes weren't always covered in viscera (and his hands, too, which Hermann could not refrain from envisioning stuffed up the back of his shirt or shoved hastily down his trousers, health hazards aside), perhaps Hermann  _ would _ kiss him. Perhaps he would sweep Newton into his arms and kiss him the way he had been letting himself imagine for over a decade, pressed hastily against the wall or one of their desks (even the chalkboard, though the idea of smudging his hard work is apalling even in a fantasy) -

He hazards a glance back at Newton: his rumpled shirt stretched across his tattooed arms, face screwed up tight in concentration, in anger, up to his elbows in a carcass. Perhaps he would, some day. Newton catches his eye, curls his lip into a scowl, and Hermann turns resignedly back to his work.

No.

He would not.


	4. darling, i can't go but you may stay here with me

“Are you feeling any better?” Newt asks. He almost feels bad breaking the silence, but God, he can't help genuinely worrying about Hermann. He’d looked like shit when Newt came down to his quarters, eyes dark, face pale and bedraggled, clothes rumpled. Even through the obvious exhaustion, Hermann somehow remains unreadable. Newt can't ever figure him out, as much time as he shamefully has dedicated to the task since they got stuck sharing a lab.

Hermann settles against him, his slight frame sagging like the relief that comes with a long, satisfying sigh, pressing his back against Newt’s chest. On the television, a school of fish shimmers, dances. Newt’s hands are warm against Hermann’s stomach, slight and fluttering beneath the mountainous folds of the sweatshirt Newt knew that Hermann had pulled from his closet one day, months ago, when he’d forgotten to bring himself a clean shirt for the morning. It had been too big for him when he bought it, and it is definitely way too big for Hermann. Newt loves it. 

Hermann shifts a little, slips his hand under the fabric, soft and fleece on the inside, to cover Newt’s hand with his own. The gesture is so intimate, so unprecedented somehow, that Newt’s breath snags in his throat in spite of Hermann's clammy palm.

Newt wishes he’d had Hermann around when he was in college. He kind of did: there were the letters and the emails, text messages and telephone calls and care packages (even if Hermann insisted They Most Certainly Are Not ‘Care Packages’, Newton, they totally were and Hermann could pry that from Newt’s cold dead hands some day); but lying on the couch with him now makes him nostalgic for something that never happened, something that could have been if he hadn’t swallowed every urgent, needling impulse to just turn up on Hermann’s doorstep with a bouquet (of flowers, of course, or maybe chalk) and profess his burning love. Or whatever.

Hermann’s skin is soft, warm and alive and improbable against Newt’s fingers in spite of the fact that his favorite hobby lately seems to be bitching about being cold. Hermann rubs the pad of his thumb over the peaks and valleys of Newt’s knuckles, the tiny raised scars from sharp dissection tools like he's trying to memorize his hands. 

“Yes, I believe I am.”


	5. late morning lullaby

Hermann straightens his back, lets the knobs of his vertebrae crack and snap. Newton’s old computer chair creaks mournfully beneath his one Gottliebian unit of mass (as Newton had lately grown fond of saying, always accompanied by a grin so disarming that Hermann had never quite managed to prepare himself for it even after all these months). He opens his laptop, unflinching in the harsh light of the startup screen. 

Hermann is going to write a book.

At the very least, he is going to make a valiant attempt to write a book. The atmosphere is hardly conducive to writing, and his co-author is sound asleep; but Hermann remains undaunted. He gathers the clutter on Newton’s desk (really  _ their _ desk now, the thought filling his heart with a bubbly flutter not unlike champagne), pausing to scrutinize the two page spread photo of them that spills from an open magazine, a leftover broadcasting their accomplishments for the press tour that had recently wrapped up. Hermann had felt like a fool posing stiffly for the photographs, and he feels just as much a fool looking them over now, though he and Newton do look admittedly distinguished against the plain white background in their tailored suits. Newton had been a natural, grinning and laughing and charming the photographers the way he charmed (mostly) everyone else in his life, Hermann notwithstanding. 

Hermann sets the magazines aside in a neat stack and decides to brave the mess of Newton’s desk drawers for a pen. When he is met with a tangled mass of paper clips and a set of gag vampire teeth, he closes the drawer as quickly as he had opened it and sets his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He believes he really should have an office, or a study, or any sort of space to maximize productivity, but their efficiency apartment is nothing short of cramped so he readjusts his position in the chair and cracks his knuckles. 

Newton snores softly from the bed in the corner, limbs spread every which way, small figure buried in the security of a hooded sweatshirt beneath the growing mound of blankets Hermann had migrated into their bed over the last few weeks. He looks at home among the posters, the controlled chaos, the little shelf of expensive kaiju figurines, the countless books the two have amassed over the years both separately and together now spilling from the bookshelves in a joint library. He is sleeping off the steady string of disappointments the post-war world has presented him with, mouth ajar and glasses pushed up into his hair. Hermann knows he is bored with marine biology, with guest lectures and settling for trying to occupy his newly-idle hands. Hermann had taught him to crochet when he cannot keep his fingers still, but that can only occupy his brain to a certain degree. Even Hermann is having his own difficulties adapting, doubts building behind the brave facade he constructs every morning.

Perhaps that is the root cause of the arguments they had been having as of late. Or maybe Hermann really is as pedantic and uptight and cold as Newton says he is- although that was likely a simple knee-jerk reaction to the fact that they had spent the majority of the previous evening bickering over whose name ought to come first on the cover. 

 

* * *

Newton stretches his legs, unfolding them to place them lazily across Hermann’s own precariously placed legs, bent at an exact forty-five degrees. Hermann remains unfazed. He blinks, once, and Newt wonders if it’s the first time he's blinked in an hour. His eyes narrow, fingers flying across the keyboard, clacking steadily. Even the strum of Newton’s guitar balanced across his thighs, the first well-loved chord of “Eleanor Rigby” doesn't make him turn his head. It used to, when they still worked for the PPDC, when they spent late, late nights crammed in the lab. He had figured out through a lengthy trial and error experiment (ie. What Songs Can I Play That Don't Make Hermann Roll His Eyes Or Tell Me To Shut Up) that Hermann carried with him a fondness for the Beatles that Newt exploited at every possible turn. He can still picture the slight smile on Hermann’s face beneath the harsh lighting in the lab that night, small and careful and something he’d kept tucked close to his heart for months afterwards. 

He nudges the laptop gently with the toe of his socked foot.

“C’mon, workaholic, put that away.”

Newt only receives an absent “Ngh” in response, a classic I'm-Not-Listening sound pulled from Hermann’s vast collection. It's better than the more standoffish “Hm” or even the flippant “Eh”. It’s better than nothing at all. Hermann’s mouth twists in concentration. The lines in Hermann’s face make him look older, deep canyons and tired pockets cast in harsh illumination from the laptop screen. Newt plucks aimlessly at the guitar strings, thinking about how nice it would be to lean forward and kiss the soft spot where Hermann’s sharp jaw meets his ear, the spot he always remembers to shave and sometimes still smells like it. He can do that now, if he wants, instead of just staring into a pile of viscera and daydreaming, stealing glances at Hermann from across the lab and  _ thinkthinkthinking _ about it. Hermann would scrunch his shoulders up to shrug Newt off, try to combat a smile, end up kissing him right into the couch cushions.

“Hermann works too much,” Newt sings, shifting to lean against the mountain of throw pillows Hermann has collected over the last few months. “He sits on the computer all day.”

“Hm.”

He strums, loud and deliberately off-key, sounding altogether rather pleased with himself. “They say he's, uh, out of touch; but I love him anyway.” 

Hermann, however, appears much less amused. His eyebrows draw in, pinching in the middle. He is well aware of the fact that his scowl could curdle milk, but chancing a look at Newt could very well mean the end of any further productivity for the evening. He considers the notion of making an offhand jab at Newton’s old band and what it was that might have brought them to their ultimate demise, but Hermann rethinks it and keeps his mouth closed. He does not mean it, anyway. From the corner of his eye, he can spot the bright splashes of color that tuck into Newton’s mismatched socks and disappear up under the rolled bottoms of his sweatpants. Newton bobs his foot to the vague tune he plays, shaking Hermann’s leg and the laptop balanced across his lap. He is precious, really, endearing and altogether quite a miracle beneath the petty infurations he seems hell-bent on causing Hermann at every possible opportunity.

“Oh, cmon,” Newton says, “I know keyboard is really my forte, but my guitar isn't  _ that _ bad! Don’t- don’t look at me like that, you know it’s not.”

“Newton, you agreed to co-author this book with me, though all evidence points to the fact that I'm taking it a good deal more seriously than you are.”

Newt flashes him a smile without skipping a beat, all straight teeth and that miniscule quirk to one side of his lips that makes Hermann want to press his lips there, to make Newton smile always. Damn him, the charming little bastard. “Gimme that, then. I'm gonna write all about our steamy love affair-”

“‘ _ Steamy _ love affair’?” Hermann squawks, face pulling in utter horror as he tries in vain to ward off the rosy blush that springs to his high cheeks. “You will do nothing of the sort! For God’s sake, Newton, I will not have the public in more of our private business than need be.”

“I'll write about that time I blew you in the lab,” Newton teases, wiggling his eyebrows in mock seduction. Hermann feels himself flush deeper. 

“You most certainly will not!”

“Or when we left that party on the press tour and went into bathroom because you couldn't keep your grabby hands off my-”

“ _ Newton _ !” 

Newt puffs his bottom lip out, pouting miserably, and sets his guitar aside in favor of sidling up to Hermann. Hermann taps out half of a sentence before he gets stuck grappling with how best to word the fact that his father is an insufferable fuckwad. Newton’s body is rest-heavy and familiar, comforting against Hermann’s weary bones. Newton’s chin presses into his bent shoulder. He drapes his arms lazily around Hermann’s slender waist. “Why write a book then if it's not gonna be a sordid, tell-all memoir?”

“It concerns our research, not our relationship.” Hermann sniffs and turns back to the computer, fingers poised with all the practiced posture of a concert pianist. Newton brushes his nose along the velveteen, newly-shaved skin of Hermann’s cheek. He exhales a sigh. Hermann feels himself give just a little, leaning nearly imperceptibly into his gently insistent touch. 

“Can we really have one without the other, though?”

Hermann’s heart stutters, jumps in his throat and sticks beneath his tongue. He stops typing. Newton's eyelashes dust him lightly, the tiny legs of an insect, and he allows himself a private smile.

“No, I suppose we can't.”

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on twitter @kaijubf


End file.
